


the boys i mean are not refined (interlude)

by mona1347, poisontaster



Series: Every Broken Thing [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, First Time, M/M, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-12
Updated: 2006-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5480198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mona1347/pseuds/mona1347, https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's leaving for Stanford is painful for everybody.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the boys i mean are not refined (interlude)

**Author's Note:**

> **the boys i mean are not refined**  
>  by e e cummings
> 
> The boys i mean are not refined  
>  They go with girls who buck and bite  
>  They do not give a fuck for luck  
>  They hump them thirteen times a night
> 
> One hangs a hat upon her tit  
>  One carves a cross on her behind  
>  They do not give a shit for wit  
>  The boys i mean are not refined
> 
> They come with girls who bite and buck  
>  Who cannot read and cannot write  
>  Who laugh like they would fall apart  
>  And masturbate with dynamite
> 
> The boys i mean are not refined  
>  They cannot chat of that and this  
>  They do not give a fart for art  
>  They kill like you would take a piss
> 
> They speak whatever's on their mind  
>  They do whatever's in their pants  
>  The boys i mean are not refined  
>  They shake the mountains when they dance

He... They...

Fuck.

Sam can't get warm. In the rising sunshine, he shivers, chewing his torn lip until it bleeds anew, fat crimson drops that taste like copper.

***

Leaving. Fucking _leaving_.

"I want a life, Dean!"

Well, what the fuck is _this_?

Leaving. Leaving "this", leaving _them_. Leaving him.

Like it's so fucking _easy._

Dammit.

***

"Hey...kid. You all right?"

The question, kindly asked, drags Sam up out of a drowning torrent of thoughts that go nowhere, shattered and half-formed. He blinks. Still, he's a Winchester; his nod and smile are automatic, brilliant fakes only betrayed when the gesture pulls his scabbed lip and makes it bleed again.

He... They... _Dean_.

He can't speak. Can't think, overwhelmed by the sense memory of Dean. On top of him. _Inside_ him, causing pain and pleasure in about equal measure until it had been scream or come and he hadn't wanted to give Dean the satisfaction of a scream, spurting all over himself and the frayed sheets instead.

It happened so _fast._

***

Dean doesn't know what his plan is when he bursts into Sam's room. He fully accepts that there probably _is_ no plan. Only the sight of Sam, sprawled out and heavy-damp with sleep. Only this gnawing sense of _breaking_ , like he’ll fly into pieces if he doesn't do _something_.

He's on Sam before he has time to think about it.

***

They've done...things before. Or rather, Dean's done things to _him_ , with his rather enthusiastic approval. Not a lot. Enough. But nothing...nothing like this.

Sam doesn't know what's worse; that it happened, that it happened _now_ , or that he doesn't know how the fuck he feels about it.

They'd already had their fight—fights—slamming doors and screaming insults with equal force while avoiding saying anything that matters…but then it was night and everything was new. Dad just up and _left_ two days before; just _gone_ and without a word to either of them. They're alone and Dean… Dean.

***

Sam's fingers are fisted into the folds of his pillow when Dean prowls into the room like a thief. He closes the distance between the door and the edge of Sam’s bed. Then he’s down. The mattress dips under his weight; he presses one hand hard between Sam’s prominent shoulder blades, holding him. _You don’t get to get out of this._

Sam wakes up when Dean pounces; of course he does, he's a Winchester. Dean feels a momentary flash of pride at his brother’s fighting instincts. But it's too late. Dean has Sam's wrists pinned, his knees between Sam's forcing Sam flat, apart.

Sam jerks once, as if testing the limits of the hold and then his head comes up. "D-Dean?" He sounds sleepy and a little startled, but not angry. Not scared, even with Dean's dick pressing hard and insistent in the crack of his ass.

Dean's fingers tighten around Sam’s bony wrists and he closes his eyes tight, panting hot and fast on the nape of Sam's neck. Dean’s mouth closes over Sam’s shoulder to suck and lick at the little constellation of birthmarks there. Sam doesn’t relax; his body is still clenched and vibrating with tension. Dean doesn't know what he's waiting for until Sam's breath goes out of him in a soft huff and Sam's hips shift and roll, bringing every inch of him in contact with every bit of Dean.

Dean's breath hitches and he suddenly doesn't know what to name the emotion chewing between his shoulder blades, exactly where he can’t see or touch; whether it's lust or hate or a love so tangled and screwed up it can't be separated from the other two.

He bites down sharply on the nape of Sam’s neck and hears his blood sing through his veins in a spiteful kind of triumph at Sam’s choked-off moan because Dean feels…mean. Hot and tight like his skin is shrinking, like something ugly is about to erupt from the thin barrier of his flesh and Dean wants Sam to _hurt_. He wants to mark him, brand himself into Sam’s skin, to _make_ him feel. Feel anything but happy to finally be getting gone.

***

It would be easy to put the blame all on Dean. Dean attacked _him_. Dean hurt _him_. Dean…fucked _him_.

Except that’s not true. That’s not true at all. And college isn’t the only reason he’s leaving home.

He touches the deep split in his mouth, scabbing again.

No, some of this is damage he’s done to himself.

***

It becomes a race to tear off Sam’s boxers and his own, to yank open the second bedside drawer where Sam keeps his lotion, to coat himself, cock and fingers, and Sam.

His grip is one-handed and unsteady, sloppy. At any point, Sam could jerk away from him, turn the tables, resist.

But he doesn’t. And that just pisses Dean off that much more. _How can you?_ he thinks, and he doesn’t know if it’s Sam or himself he’s talking to as he stabs inside Sam with his finger.

Sam hisses and pushes his face into the mattress, pushes _back_ onto Dean, whole body shaking. Dean bends his head and bites down again _hard_ , just over the scapula, tastes blood. He lets go of Sam’s wrists and pulls his finger out roughly, fumbling angrily and hastily with his own slicked cock. He didn’t prepare Sam enough, not nearly enough, but neither one of them are really prepared for _this_ , are they? Not by a long fucking shot.

Because Sam’s leaving—fucking _leaving_ —and that’s a first, and this is a first for them too. Seems appropriate. No one gets out unscathed.

***

His bladder’s aching, the first concrete sensation since… Since. He has no memory of walking the twenty or so blocks between their apartment and the bus station, no clear recollection of buying the ticket held loosely in his hand. They’re only things he knows _must_ have happened, since here he is. It frightens him more than a little, going against everything Dad and Dean tried to instill in him since damn near birth. Be alert, be aware, on your toes…

Anything could have happened. Anything.

Or maybe it already did, and anything else would have just been laughable in comparison.

Suddenly, Sam really needs to go to the bathroom.

***

It’s a single slow thrust into Sam. Inexorable. Because they never _have_ done this and he may be angry, but it’s still Sammy, _his_ Sammy. Sam lets an actual noise escape—gasping, moaning, _broken_ —but he opens for him; Sam just fucking _opens_ for him, like he's giving in, except that's a lie. Sam _never_ fucking gives in and Dean knows this isn't surrender; it's just the end.  
  
They fuck in near-silence, except for the soft grunts and whimpers of the act itself; Sam because he’s said everything he has to say and Dean because he’s always said everything—everything important—with his body anyway.

Sam’s hands are fisted in the sheets, his spine tense and flexing against Dean’s thrusts. Dean is aware of the burning in his eyes, that he’s dripping more than sweat onto the long line of Sam’s back, and still he can't stop himself from pounding in and clawing out the last thing he's ever going to get to say to Sam—Mine. _Mine_. You. Are. Mine—in the only way he can, with his teeth and his fingers and his cock. Bruising, hurting but Sam keeps thrusting back onto him, just as hard, just as rageful and it’s all just _too fucked up_ …

Sam cries out for the second time when he comes, biting down on his lip and turning his face against the sheet to muffle it, as if he doesn’t want Dean to hear. The sound, and the tight jitter of Sam’s body around Dean’s cock drags his orgasm from him, unwilling; a hemorrhage of spunk and unspooling rage until he’s emptied and empty. He falls, breathing hard, sliding against Sam’s sweat-slick and bloodied skin. He wants to hang on, but this is all it ever is; sliding away, sliding off, trying to hold and just…missing. Sometimes by inches.

A third noise when he pulls out of Sam, bitten off and stifled. That one. That’s the one he’ll carry. Sam shivers too, and Dean understands, because he doesn’t think he’s ever felt as cold as he does right now. He pulls back onto his knees and doesn’t bother cleaning off, just yanks his boxers up. Sam doesn’t move, his face hidden by the rocky peak of his shoulder.

 _I’m sorry_ , he wants to say, but he isn’t. Not really. Sorry about the whole fucking thing, this unhealed mess of magic and need, but not sorry that he has—had—this.

Dean is crawling off the bed when Sam turns, lunges and grabs him by the wrist, hard enough to crush the two bones together. Dean’s gaze splits, torn between the splatter of come across Sam’s flat belly and the stony look in his eyes. He doesn’t know where to look and settles on some distance between them.

“I’m still going,” Sam says.

Dean’s jaw clenches tight enough he’s amazed his teeth don’t grind to powder and he jerks out of Sam’s grip, leaving more than a little skin behind.

“I know.”

***

Sam looks at himself in the scratched and smeared mirror, bladder forgotten. Under ugly fluorescents, his skin looks gray instead of brown, his hair unkempt and uncut. The cut on his lip is deep, horrible, almost black and his cheekbone is abraded from scraping against the rough sheets.

He stares for a long time.

Then, still in that cotton batted fugue, he reaches down and pulls both of his shirts—long-sleeved thermal and T-shirt—up and over his head.

The glare of the buzzing lights is equally unflattering to the rest of his body. On his wrists the shadows of Dean’s fingers; on his shoulder and neck the sloppy crescents of Dean’s teeth and the purple-black smears left behind by his lips. Elsewhere other bruises, slickly black, and the angry red scrawls of nail gouges. He feels them elsewhere too; on his back, thighs, on his hips…but he’s afraid to look. This…this is just about all he can handle right now.

He doesn’t touch himself, his skin. His hands barely feel like they belong to him anyway, but that’s not it. He doesn’t need to touch them to know where and what each hurt is. He remembers them all, remembers the feel of them, going on, going in. He closes his eyes and he can still feel… _everything_.

Sam stares. Sam remembers, as he will every day over the next several. He knows already these marks, these markings, will still be there, all the way to California. They are, quite possibly, the last legacy of being a Winchester, like a gang member getting jumped in or out. And that seems fitting too.

Slowly, Sam shrugs back into his clothes and goes to catch his bus. It won’t be until later—after the bus crosses the state line—that he’ll press his face into the folded wad of his jacket and cry in silence until he’s dizzy and can’t breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Gratitude to inlovewithnight for beta services.


End file.
